


Leaves from a Logbook

by onstraysod



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Horror, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Alternate Universe - Merpeople, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Star Wars Setting, Angel/Demon Relationship, Character Study, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Gen, M/M, One Shot Collection, Prompt Fill, everybody lives au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-10
Updated: 2020-04-14
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:46:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 11,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22656481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onstraysod/pseuds/onstraysod
Summary: A new collection of one-shot prompt fills forThe Terror
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier & Harry D. S. Goodsir, Captain Francis Crozier & Thomas Jopson, Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames, Commander James Fitzjames/Harry D. S. Goodsir, Commander James Fitzjames/Lt Henry T. D. Le Vesconte, Cornelius Hickey & Thomas Jopson, Cornelius Hickey/Lt John Irving, Cornelius Hickey/Sgt Solomon Tozer, Harry D. S. Goodsir/Dr Stephen S. Stanley, Harry D. S. Goodsir/Lt Graham Gore, Henry Collins/Harry D. S. Goodsir, John Bridgens/Harry Peglar, Thomas Hartnell/Lt John Irving, Thomas Jopson/Lt Edward Little
Comments: 49
Kudos: 86





	1. The Favor: Edward Little/Thomas Jopson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Sir Edward Little agonizes over which knight he will honor with his standard at the afternoon's tournament. He gets some advice - of questionable value - from his fellow knight Sir George, and from Dukes Francis and James._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for kiev4am for the prompt "At the joust"

“Edward, please stop pacing so. It isn’t that hard.”

Sir George looked from the glowering figure stalking to and fro across the narrow room to Sir John of Irving and shrugged. A roar of laughter and applause from the spectators outside momentarily drowned out the stomp of Sir Edward’s boots on the wooden floorboards; the jester, Stanley, was rousing the crowd to a high pitch of excitement for the coming tournament. A trumpet sounded, the signal that the rulers of the duchy had arrived on the field, and a pair of footsteps could be heard on the stairs approaching the curtained room behind the gallery. The three senior knights of the realm froze where they were and stood to attention as the page, William, opened the door.

“Your majesties!” Sir George gave his customary ostentatious bow, one hand outstretched and cutting an elaborate flourish. Sir John bent straight-backed and rigid at the waist. Sir Edward, last though first in rank, slouched down, shoulders drooping beneath his sable cloak, face like thunder. Not that this expression was much different from his usual one, but somehow it caught Duke Francis’s attention straight away.

“What’s amiss, Edward?” he asked, sweeping his furs to one side as he took one of the chairs placed there for the rulers. Duke James sauntered lazily behind his leige lord and threw himself into the second chair, hooking one long calfskin-booted leg over its arm and smiling.

“Sir Edward is torturing himself over which knight to favor with his standard,” Sir George explained, cutting Edward off before he could answer for himself.

“It’s a grave responsibility,” Sir Edward stated, his tone dour. Sir George grinned merrily.

“Come, Edward, this is supposed to be a joyous occasion, and bestowing your favor a great pleasure for any senior knight.”

“Francis is right,” Duke James interjected. “It’s how we two met in the first place, after all.”

Francis turned to stare at James, brow furrowed. “Are you sure that’s a story you want to tell? As I remember it, you bestowed your favor on my opponent!”

James spread his hands in a gesture of astonishment. “Your competitor in that match was Duke James of Ross! Any idiot would have given their standard to him.”

“Apparently,” Francis muttered.

Utterly nonplussed, James plucked at the embroidered hem of his ermine robes. “Besides, it’s not as if I gave him my glove.”

Sir John’s mouth dropped open. “I-- forgive me, my lords, but– perhaps I have misunderstood… Is there a difference? Between bestowing one’s standard and bestowing one’s glove?” Sir George grinned even more merrily.

“Bestowing your standard on a knight is merely a traditional gesture of favor and confidence,” Duke Francis explained. “Bestowing one’s glove on a knight… well, that has a different connotation.”

“It implies a romantic intention,” Duke James supplied nonchalantly.

At this, Sir John gave a squeak of sheer panic and bolted from the room. “What on earth--" Duke Francis cried.

“Pardon him, Your Majesty,” Sir George began gleefully, “but a few moments ago John bestowed his glove on young Sir Tom of Hartnell. No wonder the lad looked so gobsmacked.”

Sir Edward’s agitation over his own dilemma had led him to resume pacing. Duke Francis watched him with an expression of fond exasperation.

“You’re overthinking this, Edward. Bestowing your favor on a knight need not bind you to him or create some kind of contract of obligation. You need not pledge him your patronage or, I don’t know, your heart, for heaven’s sake! It need only reflect your confidence in his skill during the joust. Surely you can find one knight amidst all the gathered competitors worthy of that much of your esteem?”

“Sir Graham of Gore,” Duke James suggested, consulting the scroll listing all that day’s competitors. “He’s an honorable man: brave, fit, and--" James broke off when he saw Francis shaking his head.

“He’s already been given a favor,” Francis said.

“By whom?”

“Your old champion, Duke James of Ross,” Francis sneered, snatching the scroll from James’s hand. “Now let me see… Sir Henry of Peglar, he’s not bad… Here’s young Sir Charles Des Voeux--"

“I don’t trust him,” Edward growled.

“Very well, he is rather… Ah! What about James’s bosom friend, Sir Henry Le Vesconte of Dundas? He’s competing in the third round--"

“I already gave him my favor, of course,” James interrupted. Francis rounded on him again.

“James, for God’s sake, we’re supposed to be neutral in this!”

“It’s Dundy, Francis, I couldn’t not support him. He’d have been crushed.”

“Give him a sugared cake, he’d have gotten over it soon enough.” Francis returned to the scroll. “Uh, well then… there’s someone named Thomas of Marylebone…”

James barked a laugh. “Since when did Marylebone start sending knights to the joust?”

“Don’t be a snob, James. Who did you choose, George?”

“Sir Walter of Fairholme,” George offered happily. “I felt sorry for him because everyone forgets he exists.”

“As good a reason as any, I suppose,” Duke Francis mused.

The sound of three trumpets signaled that the competing knights were lining up beneath the gallery to pay homage to the sovereigns and senior knights. Taking James’s hand, Duke Francis went down the few steps to the open gallery overlooking the tournament field. Sir Edward and Sir George flanked the royal couple.

Waving to the assembled crowd, Duke Francis waited until all the knights had reined in their mounts, forming a neat line of gleaming armor and colorful, fluttering pennants, before gesturing to them.

“Honorable competitors, please remove your helmets so that we may look upon your faces.”

The knights pulled off their helmets, setting them down upon the pommels of their saddles. Duke James caught the eye of Sir Henry of Dundas and gave him a sly wink.

“Sir Edward, it is still left for you to choose a knight upon whom to bestow your favor,” Francis said, his strong voice ringing out over the field and spectators. “Have you decided which knight to so honor?”

For a moment, it seemed that Sir Edward had not heard his lord’s question. He was staring fixedly at one of the knights, a slender, black-haired man with an unfamiliar pennant and large, hypnotic blue-green eyes. The man met Sir Edward’s gaze boldly, though not without a blush to his chiseled cheeks, the slightest hint of smile gracing his lips. Rousing himself with a physical shake, Sir Edward turned to Duke Francis.

“I have, Your Majesty.” He held up his hand and waved the handsome knight forward.

“I know not your name or the region you joust for, good knight,” Edward said, leaning over the edge of the gallery to speak to the black-haired jouster.

“Thomas, sir,” the man told him, looking up at Edward with the same sort of dazed distraction with which Edward had regarded him. “Thomas of Marylebone.” Duke James gave a little gasp of astonishment; Duke Francis nudged him in the ribs.

“Thomas of Marylebone,” Sir Edward repeated slowly, savoring each syllable. “I grant you my favor, my confidence, my patronage, and my…” Reaching inside his cloak for his standard, Edward paused. Tearing off his right glove instead, he reached down, his fingers brushing Thomas’s as he placed the article in the knight’s outstretched hand. Duke James gasped again.

“I will bear it with honor, sir,” Thomas of Marylebone declared breathlessly, and raising the glove to his lips, he gave it a lingering kiss.


	2. Poppy-Red: Cornelius Hickey & Solomon Tozer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Cornelius Hickey judges every man by their usefulness to his plans. And he has plans for Solomon Tozer._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for whalersandsailors for the prompt "“His heart’s red river, salted by spite”

Billy still had his uses. He swept up spilled words, unwisely dropped from the lips of officers in unguarded moments, and pieced them together into coherent wholes of rumor and gossip. He glanced at lists and logbook pages, left lying half-written on tables and desks while he tidied cabins and folded clothes, and he had a good memory for what he’d seen. Then there were the little details he’d hoarded like dragon’s gold: who had a stolen bottle of the captain’s whiskey stashed between their mattress and the bulkhead wall; who had an anchor tattooed on their left shoulder in violation of naval regulations; who kept a stash of letters tied with red ribbon beneath their pillow. Weaknesses in blue walls, cracks beneath golden epaulettes: points at which to place the blade when the moment was ripe.

But Billy was fragile, slight and given to sickliness, not the kind of man to take into a scrap. And the scrap was coming - Cornelius could feel it - building like a thunderhead in the distance, rolling black and rumbling with the promise of blood. He’d been in back alley fights, the kind not limited to fists, the kind where chunks of flesh were gouged out by bottle-broken teeth, where fish hooks sliced into muscle and wire wrapped around throats, and he knew you needed a bruiser at your back in such a scramble, a man built like a locomotive, iron-hard and heavy, able to demolish all in his path.

Lying awake in the darkness, Cornelius considered his options. He’d watched Diggle pound hardtack into a sticky pulp with his side-of-beef fists, but the older man had proven impervious to the slash of Cornelius’s tongue. Billy had cultivated Armitage, but the gunroom steward was no fighter and next to useless at gathering information.

No. For some time now, he’d had someone else in his sights.

Solomon Tozer was a proud man. He was absurdly proud of his poppy-red coat: you could tell by the way he fussed over it, brushing the cuffs and picking the least crumbs off after dinner. He was proud of his long rifle: cradling it like a babe in arms when on guard duty. He was proud, too - and this was the most laughable part - of his sworn service to a girl in a palace who’d never heard his name. But best of all was the sergeant’s resentment. Cornelius licked his lips as he remembered a few choices asides scattered about by the man, beneath his breath and thought unheard by any save fellow Marines. _Service taken for granted; despised; used for menial work like dogs by captains and lieutenants; and aren’t we better than that, boys?_

Proud, bitter, and now that Heather was lying in sickbay with a hole in his head? Lonely.

Ah, yes. Yes indeed. Worked by the right pair of hands, the right tongue, Solomon Tozer was the red-clad bruiser Cornelius Hickey needed, a broad-backed stepping stone to his throne.


	3. Discovery Service: Harry Goodsir/Graham Gore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Harry Goodsir discovers more than Arctic flora and fauna on the sledge journey to King William Land._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for hungry-hobbits for the prompt "You fell to me like snow"

On the second day of the journey, Harry had insisted on taking his turn in the sledge harness. Even as he’d stumbled and fallen, halting the line to struggle back upright, pausing to readjust the straps, he’d felt less like a nuisance, more like a member of the team. He’d made the effort, satisfied that the other men could no longer think of him as a superfluity, or as someone who thought too well of himself to take a hand in hard labor, and he’d continued to feel that warm sense of satisfaction until he’d woken on the third morning, aching through to his bones.

Everything hurt. His hands, his feet, the base of his neck; his shoulders felt as if they’d been stretched thin as taffy; the muscles in the back of his calves burned. Only pride induced him to take his turn during that day’s travel, and he had done so silently, too preoccupied by pain, too singularly focused on the effort to move one foot before the other, to comment on the landscape or speculate on what they might find once they reached the island. Now, as the other men set up that night’s camp, Harry slumped alone in one of the tents, too weary to crawl any further. He glanced over at his small chest of medicines and began to reach for the lid - he had salves and ointments that could loosen knotted muscles and ease their aching - but his arm dropped back down limply to his side. Just the thought of stripping off his slops and other layers to apply medicine required more energy than he currently possessed.

As Harry fought numbly against the temptation to fall over and smother his suffering in sleep, Lieutenant Gore entered the tent, awash in snowflakes and the frost of his own breath. Taking one look at the misery writ plainly on Harry’s face - misery Harry tried to hide with a smile that turned into a grimace - Gore offered him a sympathetic grin and knelt down at his side. “You’re feeling it, I think.”

Harry nodded miserably. “I didn’t anticipate how hard it would be.”

“You needn’t have taken a turn, you know. It was very kind of you, but unnecessary.”

“I am well aware that I am nothing more than excess baggage on this expedition, Lieutenant,” Harry said quietly. “You don’t have to pretend otherwise.”

“I wish you would not say such things, Dr. Goodsir. It distresses me.” Shifting so that he sat a little to Goodsir’s back, Gore laid a hand upon each of Harry’s shoulders and - to the naturalist’s astonishment - began to knead gently at his sore muscles. “Now let me see if I can’t work out some of that stiffness.”

Harry’s mouth fell open upon a protest, an assurance that Gore need not do such a thing for him, but the words died beneath an exhalation of pleasure. The lieutenant’s touch was warm and firm, his fingers working down from Harry’s shoulders along the line of his spine, then back up to rub soft circles against the nape of Harry’s neck. Tension pulsed out of him with each breath, and the consciousness of pain began to ebb away.

“I need not tell you, I’m sure, about the resilience of muscles,” Gore was saying, his face close enough that his breath fell in hot waves against the curls edging out the bottom of Harry’s Welsh wig. “A little rest, and you will find yourself much recovered. Is this helping?”

Harry swallowed, struggling to work his tongue. “Yes, I thank you, but-- Really, lieutenant, I have no wish to trouble you--"

“After everything you have done for me, Dr. Goodsir, I must insist upon you allowing me to do something for you.” Gore’s hands moved down Harry’s biceps, palpating the flesh beneath the layers of cloth, working in compact circles and sparking tendrils of heat that slipped along Harry’s nerves, sizzling in every extremity.

“I am at a loss, Lieutenant, to think of anything I have done for you.”

Gore’s hands stilled for a moment. “Did you know, Dr. Goodsir, that I begged Commander Fitzjames to let you accompany us?”

“I did not.” Harry was genuinely surprised.

“He told me that you’d requested to come, but that he and Sir John were initially against it. They felt it would be better to send Stanley, being an old Navy man, more inured to the hardships of the service. And, of course, that would necessitate your staying to care for the sick. But I prevailed upon Fitzjames; indeed, I gave him no peace in the matter.”

“But why?”

Gore laughed softly. “Because you wanted it, and I-- Well, Dr. Goodsir, to be candid: I wanted you all to myself.”

Harry’s breath congealed halfway between his mouth and lungs, freezing into a solid knot. He meant to speak, meant to express his complete bewilderment about Gore’s meaning, but the words wouldn’t come, and Gore preempted him.

“Do your hands hurt? I tend to hook my thumbs beneath the harnesses when I pull and I end up at the end of the day with such an ache.” Moving around to face Harry, Gore pulled off his own mittens and grasped one of Harry’s hands in both of his. Using his thumbs, he began gently massaging the heel of Harry’s hand, glancing up into the naturalist’s eyes briefly as he did so.

“I’d been to these regions once before, you know, with Back in ’37. And I hated it.” He laughed, a blush the pink of a dawn sky coloring his cheeks. “Hated the cold, the ice, the silence. The never-ending expanse of white. But I knew what being first lieutenant on Erebus during this voyage would mean for my career, so I signed on without hesitation. Even though I dreaded it. But when we saw our first bergs in ’45, when we reached the coast of Greenland… something changed. Where I’d seen nothing but a shapeless block of ice before, I began seeing castles, their battlements made of crystal. I saw colors in the snow and the cliffs, even in the ice, I hadn’t noticed before: shades like the sheen of pearls or the foam on waves after a storm. And life - it was so much more abundant, I just hadn’t bothered to look hard enough on that previous journey.” He fell silent for a few moments, his thumbs circling Harry’s palm again and again. “You did that for me, Dr. Goodsir. Your excitement, your knowledge… Changed my perspective. Now when I trudge out here, out into the middle of all this whiteness, it longer feels empty. That’s what you’ve done for me.”

“I had-- I hadn’t the faintest notion, Lieutenant.” Harry licked his lips, trying desperately to keep the words flowing despite how much they wanted to stick in the back of his throat, unspoken. “I thought I had likely made a fool of myself--”

“No, my dearest doctor. Quite the contrary.” Gore’s thumbs had ceased their circular motions; now he simply held Harry’s mittened hand between his bare palms. “Shall I admit something wicked? I was tired of sharing you with Fitzjames. It’s true,” he added, seeing the astonishment in Harry’s expression. “He monopolized so much of your time during the passage through Baffin Bay and I was– well, I was jealous. If just a taste of your enthusiasm could render the Arctic more palatable, what else might it do? Enliven the monotony of a sledge journey, most certainly.” Gore drew a deep breath. “Or perhaps keep me warm on the coldest of nights, if I were very lucky indeed.”

The lieutenant looked up then, fixing Harry’s eyes with his own: bright blue and, at that moment, wide with a trepidation that belied the gold epaulettes and medals won for bravery, the cool, swaggering confidence with which he had strode across Erebus’s deck and drawn Harry’s gaze from afar.

“Please don’t regard yourself so cheaply, Dr. Goodsir,” Gore murmured, and he held Harry’s hand more firmly, cradled in both his own. “I do not.”

Bending, Gore pressed a kiss into Harry’s palm, and Harry - far from feeling the ache of his weary muscles - was seized by a thrill of euphoria, as if he’d hauled a sledge all the way to the heavens and discovered the moon.


	4. To Suffer and Be Strong: Edward Little

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short fic dedicated to Commander Edward Little, on the occasion of his 208th birthday

The Admiralty banquet for the heroic survivors of the Franklin Expedition was a sumptuous affair of gleaming cutlery, gold buttons, soaring oratory, and intense discomfort. Between the speeches by Arctic luminaries like Ross and Parry, between the frequent toasts to the men present and the men lost, the survivors exchanged surreptitious glances, mirroring a misery that their tight smiles and forced laughter could not disguise. No matter the eloquence of the men who cheered them, no matter the motive - whether genuine sympathy and esteem, or a desire to minimize the damage to country, crown, and senior service - the survivors were too aware of all that must remain unspoken, unrevealed. The things the men huzzahing them could never know, and would never wish to.

Commander Edward Little felt the same suffocating oppression as his fellow survivors. It was a building heat at the back of his neck, a film of cloying sweat beneath his collar and across his palms. He fought constantly against the urge to flee, to run out the gilded doors and into the street; he needed more space to breathe. Looking around the table from his seat at Crozier’s right hand, Edward recognized the same impulse in his shipmates: from the captains to the lowliest able seamen, they all wore the same hunted look in their eyes, that of cornered wild creatures seeking an escape. Hartnell, halfway down the table from Edward, kept sneaking a finger beneath his neatly tied stock as if his collar were constricting his throat; Le Vesconte, seated to Fitzjames’s left and directly across from Edward, fidgeted incessantly with his napkin. Fitzjames had risen several times to offer the expedition’s collective gratitude to the speakers and toast-makers, but despite his charm and gallantry, the very brevity of his comments revealed how much the man had been altered by his experiences. Crozier, refusing all offers of spirits and taking only water, seemed in an affable enough mood - smiling and nodding at the speeches, even dashing away the occasional tear - but Edward noticed the way the captain’s fingers drummed restlessly on the table as if ticking off the seconds of the interminable affair.

It was a great surprise, therefore, when - after Sir James Ross had finished a brief but affecting speech of tribute to those who had made the ultimate sacrifice in the quest for the Passage - Crozier had risen to his feet and lifted his hand to call for silence. It was granted swiftly, a hush of astonished expectation running along the table; _who is this new Crozier_ , the men of the Navy seemed to be wondering, _that would willing address such a crowd, on such an occasion?_

“If I may beg your indulgence for a moment, gentlemen, I should like to offer a toast of my own.” Crozier’s voice rang out through the banqueting hall, as steady and commanding as Edward had ever heard it aboard _Terror_ , ordering sheets furled or anchors raised. “I understand that it is the custom on an evening such as this to receive the toasts, rather than to offer our own, but I cannot think of an occasion that would offer me a better chance to recognize someone whose efforts, on behalf of all the men of the expedition, contributed in no small part to our being here tonight. Though I have long appreciated this man’s worth, I admit I may not have expressed my gratitude for it as sufficiently as I might have done. Allow me to rectify this now.

“Some of you may remember,” Crozier continued, glancing down the table to where James Clark Ross sat, “that my letters sent back from Greenland were not altogether sanguine.” There was some scattered laughter from those of Crozier’s correspondents that were present, and Sir James grinned and nodded. “But there were a few points regarding the preparation for the expedition upon which I was entirely satisfied, and one in particular in which I was even effusive in my praise. As effusive as a rather saturnine Irishman can be.” More laughter. “I recognized, at the beginning of our journey, this man’s skill in seamanship, his integrity, and his commitment to the safety and comfort of his men and his ship. But it was not until later, perhaps not until our rescue, that I truly understood just how much I had personally leaned upon him, relied upon him, burdened him even with cares and responsibilities well beyond the scope of his duties.”

Here Crozier paused and Edward was not surprised to see him look to his left where Fitzjames sat. For a moment, Edward’s sense of oppression lifted with the true pleasure of anticipating Crozier’s public praise for his second in command. All of the survivors had grown immensely fond of _Erebus_ ’s captain, all the more so for how close they had come to losing him, and they were all well aware of the bond the ordeal had forged between their leaders. Fitzjames met Crozier’s gaze and, smiling, nodded. This seemingly impromptu tribute was not coming unexpectedly.

“Any captain present tonight can testify to the vital role their second plays in the success of any voyage, and to the well-being of a ship and her crew. The very fact that so many of us survived to be here tonight, despite all the obstacles that sought to thwart us, stands as a testament to the courage, the tenacity, and the quiet, steady virtue of the man I was pleased then to call my second, and am even more pleased now to call my friend. I hope you will all join with me,” Crozier said in a ringing tone, lifting his glass, “in honoring the finest first lieutenant a captain could ask for: Commander Edward Little.”

The cacophony of sound made no sense to Edward. Hands were clapping together, knuckles being rapped against the tabletop, voices huzzahing and murmuring words of praise, all in his direction. Chair legs scraped the floor as the men stood, raising glasses that multiplied the candlelight, scattering it in every direction. Dazzled and dazed, Edward remained seated until a hand was gently laid upon the top of his thigh. Turning to his right, Edward found Thomas Jopson beaming at him, his large eyes shining with more than reflected illumination. “Go on,” he murmured, his voice barely audible above the din, “you deserve this.”

Edward found himself on his feet, unaware of how he’d accomplished it. Le Vesconte was grinning at him from across the table; “hear, hear,” Fitzjames was saying, leaning over to shake Edward’s hand. When he let it go, Crozier took it and drew close to speak into Edward’s ear.

“I hope you will not hold this against me,” Crozier said, pressing Edward’s hand between both his own. “But it needed to be said. Thank you, Edward. For serving me so faithfully and so well.”

It was, perhaps, not seemly, not proper. But Edward no longer cared for the niceties of societal expectations. He embraced Crozier, and was tightly embraced in return.

“Sir, it was my honor.”


	5. Song of the Serpent: John Irving/Cornelius Hickey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Taken captive by the mutineers, John Irving's ordeal of temptation begins [slight suggestion of non-con, but that's up to interpretation]_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minific written for mannisbaratheon and dedicated to succession, for the prompt "under cover of darkness"

It happened the very first night at the mutineers’ camp. His hands were still bound, but one of the men took pity on him, helping him into a makeshift bedroll as they all settled down to sleep. Sheer exhaustion had lulled John into a numbness halfway between consciousness and dream, but he woke readily enough when he felt Hickey’s body slither up against his back, the thin hips of the caulker’s mate curving forward to cup John’s arse.

“Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth.” The tip of Hickey’s tongue tickled against the skin beneath John’s ear as he whispered, and John could hear his smile, that baring of the teeth meant to mock and devour. “For your love is better than wine…”

Solomon’s holy words dripped from Hickey’s mouth like poisoned honey, stilling John’s heart in an icy grip even as they roused him in other ways. He lay stunned like a helpless beast in the first garden, letting Hickey curl around him, letting the caulker’s mate slide his fingers into his trousers. As Hickey rutted against him in rhythm with the movement of his hand, grunting softly against the nape of John’s neck, John recited psalms in his mind, fire enveloping him from inside. Every night thereafter, when Hickey slid into his bedroll, whispering softly of death as he stroked him, John told himself that his lack of resistance was only due to his desperate need to stop feeling cold. The heat of sin warmed him when nothing else could.


	6. A Sailor's Faith: Edward Little

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Edward Little navigates by the stars_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A minific written for the prompt "the stars or space"

Edward had always excelled at celestial navigation. It gave him a practical reason for staring up at the stars, for learning their names and positions. As _Terror_ sailed through Lancaster Sound that first summer, he found an excuse each evening to be up on deck, pausing in the course of his duties to look up and marvel at the clarity of the Arctic sky. The stars shone brighter there than Edward had ever seen them, even in the middle of the Mediterranean; appearing larger and closer too, they seemed near enough to brush with a finger.

He had his fears about the expedition - what sane man wouldn’t? - but his misgivings dissolved beneath the scattered heavens, as they always did when he contemplated the beautiful disorder of those distant lights. His was a sailor’s faith, simple and undogmatic, ruled by the wind and the waves more than any words in some ancient book; but in the multitude of the stars he saw a purposeful design, one that he could not understand but one which assured him that earthly seas were not the only ones each man was destined to sail. There were other journeys to make, beyond passages every person would discover in time, and it was a certainty that comforted him. John could keep his scriptures and his tablets of sin; Edward would find his truth in the eternal mystery spread before him in the night sky.


	7. Two-Way Mirror: Cornelius Hickey & Thomas Jopson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _As Jopson guards the condemned Hickey, both men contemplate very different acts_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for tommyplum for the prompt "A moment of temptation"

The sides of the tent billowed slightly in the wind, and the ropes tethering it to the pegs snapped with a twang. He laid on his back, staring up at the light of the perpetual springtime sun as it glowed against the canvas. It might be hard for other men to discern the time of day in such a place, but he had an innate feel for it, as he did for many things. It was around four o’clock in the afternoon, he reckoned, and in a couple of hours he would be dead. Or at least, that was Crozier’s plan. It would never happen, of course. Something would come along. Something always did.

Cornelius Hickey - and he thought of himself as Cornelius, the result of having kept the alias far longer than he’d expected to - glanced over at the man tasked with guarding him. Thomas Jopson was a steward, had been a steward, would never be anything more than a steward, though Crozier’s favoritism and Jopson’s exceptional bootlicking had given him pretensions to a third lieutenancy. Jopson was looking down at the barrel of the shotgun propped across his thighs, and though he’d claimed to be able to use it, Cornelius wondered. He wondered a great many things about the steward.

With every other man, Cornelius knew where he stood and how he felt. He knew Crozier, who was weak, feared him. He knew Billy, who was needy, would not dare to cross him. He suspected that Tozer, who was lonely and angry, both envied his wit and desired his body. But with Jopson, Cornelius felt like a man stumbling about in a London fog. He felt several things about the steward simultaneously, and he could not pin him down or discern his angles. At any moment, like that man in London, Cornelius felt he could reach the end of an unseen pier and plunge into the water to drown.

He knew, for one thing, that Thomas Jopson was a fake. He’d heard that posh and proper accent slip and he’d caught the grimy tones beneath, the improper enunciation of certain words and consonants recognizable to someone well versed in fakery. Cornelius admired Jopson for that: like him, Jopson had reinvented himself, severing the anchor cables that tied him to the gutter he’d crawled out of. Cornelius had stolen another man’s name, while Jopson had stolen another man’s voice, but it was the same act, the same lie. Sometimes Cornelius wondered if Thomas Jopson was really the steward’s name at all.

Recognition, however, was a two-way mirror. Just as Cornelius recognized Jopson for what he was - a fellow rat scrambling to rise above London’s filthy floodwater - Jopson had recognized him. Cornelius had long suspected it. Though Jopson had been, from the very beginning of the voyage, unfailingly friendly to officer and man alike, he’d evinced a singular disdain for Cornelius, a coldness he showed none of the others, no matter their station. Just minutes before he’d admitted it - _I’ve shot smaller hawks than you, Mr Hickey_ \- and though Cornelius was now past all worries (for a change was coming, and soon enough he’d be on top, or dead trying) that sharp, suspicious gaze of Jopson’s still unnerved him. For here was another confusing thing about Thomas Jopson: he made Cornelius Hickey, who feared nothing, feel afraid.

Maybe it was just the man’s preternatural eyes, or the silent stillness with which he held himself at the ready to spring to an officer’s command. But something about Jopson put the fear of God in Cornelius. Perhaps not God: Satan, more likely, or some pagan deity, or one of the ancient ones from whose race Cornelius could imagine Thomas Jopson to have come. He did not fear that Jopson would report on him to the captain, for what did he know of Cornelius’s plans? Nor did he anticipate that Jopson would regale Crozier with tales of Cornelius’s seduction of Billy Gibson: that would be hitting too close to home. For Cornelius had long suspected that there was something more than professional in the relationship between Jopson and Lieutenant Little: he knew well the telltale signs of carnal knowledge. For Little, it was the balling of a fist without an accompanying anger in his eyes; for Jopson, a maidenly reddening of the cheeks. In company with one another, the two men betrayed their tells like card players holding winning hands. No, it was not a report to the captain that Cornelius had to fear.

It was something more primal, and far worse. It was the idea that, though Cornelius could bring all the rest of the crews to their knees, bowing to his power and his will, he might look out over their heads to find Jopson still on his feet, laughing at him, mocking his pretensions and his plans.

Yet there was still another impulse wrapped up around Jopson, contrary to all the rest, and it was this: desire. Thomas Jopson was an exceedingly attractive man, the kind that made even those who bristled at the propositions of shipmates turn their heads and stare. Hickey had no equal among the expedition’s crews, but if there was one who came close - one sharp and shrewd enough to reshape himself to any situation, one cunning enough to claw his way up the ladder of rank - it was Jopson. Cornelius couldn’t imagine that the steward took any satisfaction warming the bunk of the dull and dour Lieutenant Little; that must simply have been a part of Jopson’s strategy. No, Jopson deserved a worthy lover, and Cornelius could think of only one man up to the task.

Maybe, even now, it wasn’t too late. Maybe all Jopson needed was a sign, an invitation. Eyes fixed on the steward’s face, Cornelius slid his hand down to the waistband of his trousers. The urge was right there, coiled tight in the pit of his groin; a few strokes and he’d have something to make Jopson reconsider all his stratagems. Then, when Jopson’s pretty lips were wrapped around him, Cornelius could whisper of his plans. No more orders for you and I, Jopson. Neither London nor King William Land have ever seen the likes of us.

***

All it would take was the flex of his finger.

Looking down at the shotgun in his lap, Jopson remembered the first time his grandfather had taken him out to hunt. It had been in Yorkshire, before they’d moved down to Marylebone so his father could find work; he’d bagged two birds between his grandad’s patient lessons in safety. _Never keep your finger on the trigger_ , he’d told Thomas, _for you’ll pull it on instinct. Say you see something burst out of the woods: maybe it’s a deer, but maybe it’s a man. If your finger’s on the trigger, you’ll shoot the man before you’ve figured out the difference._

He had always remembered his grandad’s advice, and always followed it. Until that afternoon. His finger had been hooked around the shotgun’s trigger since he’d entered the tent with Hickey, and every instinct in his body screamed that he should pull it.

Thomas had never shot a man, never anticipated the coming of a day when he’d want to. But then Cornelius Hickey wasn’t a man. He was a snake, a viper, curled up and ready to spring, the venom in his tongue instead of his fangs. It had taken Thomas no more than a day aboard _Terror_ to know everything he needed to know about Cornelius Hickey - men like him haunted the streets of Marylebone, flattering and cajoling - but he’d never anticipated the evil this particular serpent would do. One twitch of Thomas’s finger and he would do no more.

Hickey was watching him, his hand creeping beneath the waist of his trousers…

Thomas’s finger tightened on the trigger.


	8. Sucré: James Fitzjames/Henry Le Vesconte

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In modern day London, James Fitzjames and Henry Le Vesconte co-own a bakery. Sometimes their wares get put to creative uses._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the prompt "Fitzconte bakery AU"

“We’re never going to turn a profit in this venture if you keep sampling the wares, you know.”

James flipped the sign on the door to “Closed” and turned to face Henry, his look of disapproval not the least convincing. Shaking his head and chuckling softly, Henry continued spreading icing on one of the remaining shortbread biscuits from beneath the display counter.

“Just trying out the new buttercream frosting.You wouldn’t want me to stop developing new recipes, would you?”

“Of course, but it’s not a question of want, my dear Dundy, but of absolute necessity. We’ve got Parry’s retirement bash coming up next week and the Admiralty will be expecting us to outdo ourselves.”

The Sugar Cheetah had been a success from the day of its opening two months before. In the same week as its debut, Fitzjames and Le Vesconte had been asked by the Admiralty to supply a variety of desserts for John Barrow Jr.’s birthday party, and the reviews had been universally positive. Even the normally dour Francis Crozier had been witnessed sporting something suspiciously like a smile as he’d nibbled on one of Le Vesconte’s signature gingersnaps. There had been biscuits in the shape of compasses, anchors, and ship’s wheels, and a four-tiered chocolate and black cherry ganache cake topped with a three-masted ship made of marzipan. Word of mouth had rippled outward from the Admiralty and the little confectionary had been busy ever since, with Le Vesconte handling the baking and Fitzjames - his usual charm turned up to full wattage - manning the counter and booking catering gigs. It had been exhausting, both men returning to their flat above the shop each evening worn to the bone, but well satisfied. Soon they would have enough capital to hire additional employees, giving themselves more time for leisure to enjoy the fruits of their success.

“Don’t worry your lovely curls over that, James. I’ve got more than a few things up my sleeve.”

“Oh, I have no doubt.” Smirking, James sauntered over to join Henry behind the counter. “So what’s special about this?”

“It contains just a touch of cinnamon. Here, tell me what you think.” Henry took the spoon out of the mixing bowl, offering it to James, who responded with a withering look.

“Henry. I think you should know by now that’s not how I do things.”

Sighing, yet with a telltale glimmer in his eyes, Henry set down the bowl. Reaching up, he began unbuttoning his shirt until he’d bared a long expanse of sternum. As James watched, tongue snaking out to wet his lips, Henry stuck his finger in the bowl and drew a thin line in buttercream frosting down his throat, dipping into his suprasternal notch, and ending a few inches below it.

“That’s better.” Grasping Henry at the waist, James leaned in and began slowly licking up the line of frosting. Henry let his head fall back, eyelids closing as his lips opened on a soundless moan. He reached behind him, bracing himself against the counter at his back.

“Mmmm, Henry,” James murmured between laps and little nibbles, “delicious.”

“I know what you like.” Henry brought one hand forward, pushing it into the thickness of James’s dark hair.

“You do that.” Tongue stilling on Henry’s Adam’s apple, James drew back with a grin. “Come on. Let’s go upstairs.” He gestured at the bowl. “And bring the frosting. We wouldn’t want that to go to waste.”


	9. Back to School: Francis Crozier & Thomas Jopson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Francis makes dinner for a tired student_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A three-sentence fic for the prompt "father and son"

Supper was almost ready, and though it wasn’t much - frozen dinners generally being the safest bet for Francis since the casserole debacle that ended with smoke-induced tears and the deployment of a fire extinguisher - it was hot and filling and would allow the two of them some time to catch up: something they hadn’t been able to do much of lately, what with Thomas’s full class schedule and Francis’s Admiralty work. Bustling into the dining room to lay the table, a silly joke he’d heard from James on the tip of his tongue, Francis stopped abruptly at the sight of Thomas, slumped in the chair at the end of the table, eyelids fluttering closed, head propped on a hand that rested atop a stack of thick books on navigation and naval history. Warring emotions rose warm inside Francis’s chest: his delight in the initiative that had led Thomas to return to school to pursue a degree, worry for the toll such long hours of reading and writing and research were bound to take on him; near to bursting with a love he had never expected to feel, Francis walked over and stroked the younger man’s silken black hair, and when Thomas stirred and mumbled an apology, Francis merely shook his head and said “I’m so very proud of you, son.”


	10. I Know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Fitzier in the_ Star Wars _universe!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A three-sentence fic written for earnestscribbler

It was a treacherous part of the Outer Rim, a half-abandoned hyperlane notorious for partial collapses caused by supernovas and transiting gas giants, and it took all of the considerable skill Francis had amassed over decades of piloting to keep the VCX-100 light freighter from careening off into unchartered spaces between the stars.

“James, dear, please don’t take this the wrong way,” he muttered through teeth gritted in concentration as the other man climbed into the cockpit, “but I’m a bit too busy at the moment to pay the kind of attention your story of surviving an attack of rabid loth-cats on the Ring of Kafrene so richly deserves.”

“I’ve not come for stories, Francis,” the taller man said, leaning over to press a kiss to the captain’s temple, “just to wish you luck on your piloting;” to which, surprised and a bit abashed, Francis responded by turning from the viewscreen long enough to say “I love you;” James grinned as he replied: “I know.”


	11. Clinical Detachment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Modern physician Harry Goodsir gets some unexpected attention from his colleague, Dr. Stanley_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three-sentence fic written for an anonymous requester, who wanted these two in a modern setting

There was an odd sort of clinical detachment in his reaction when the head of the burn unit began caressing his thigh beneath the table at the quarterly internists’ luncheon. Even as his nerve endings reacted with traitorous alacrity, sending sharp spikes of forbidden heat toward his groin, Harry managed to ponder how little of his true feelings the dour man beside him had betrayed before. He leaned into the touch despite himself, wondering if it had all been a strategy of deflection, those sneers and cutting jabs: the defensive mechanism of a surprisingly tender heart, fearful of bearing itself.


	12. The Lighthouse Keeper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Henry Collins is a lighthouse keeper; Harry Goodsir is a merman_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three-sentence fic written for samsblogforstuff

The lonely life of a lighthouse keeper disposed a man to many fancies: he’d seen ghost ships with tattered sails slip in and out of the moonlight, and the same songs that had tempted Odysseus long ago had ridden the waves anew to wake him from troubled dreams. But this man with gentle seal eyes and a maiden’s soft flowing curls was real, impossible as that seemed, for Henry was holding him in the shallows, his rough hands stroking the borderline between warm human flesh and the silvery scales of the tail that had wrapped itself around him. Henry had a vision of a cottage in the deep, coral walls bedecked with crabs, light shining from windows curtained with kelp, and he wanted to go there, even if it meant drowning: for drowning in love didn’t seem so bad a way to die.


	13. The Private Tutor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Henry Peglar's literacy has vastly improved, but that doesn't stop him from engaging the tutoring services of John Bridgens_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A three-sentence fic for a professor/student prompt

He felt guilty for obscuring how well his reading abilities had improved, a tinge of shame pricking at his conscience each time he purposefully stumbled over the pronunciation of a word or pretended to struggle with the syntax of a sentence. But he had grown addicted to the way John’s voice rolled in warm waves over his skin, addicted to being - for the hour of each tutoring session - the very center of such a wise and gentle man’s world. The pride and pleasure that lit John’s dark eyes whenever Henry read a full paragraph without pausing for aid was a drug he could no longer bear to live without, a heady rush that made him daydream of other ways to bring the older man such sweet satisfaction.


	14. The Ice Dragon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _James Fitzjames and Harry Goodsir make a shocking Arctic discovery_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three-sentence fic written for hungry-hobbits who requested a supernatural creature AU

The dragon - for unbelievable though it seemed, that was surely what it was - uncoiled itself from the field of tumbled bergs and snowy hummocks like a fractured part of unfinished Creation, stretching out its serpentine neck and rising over the two men, taller than the towers of the Palace of Westminster. James placed himself protectively in front of Harry as the creature spread its wings, the membranous flesh as white as sailcloth, the fangs it bared in its open maw glistening like stalactites of ice; it was as exhilarating as it was terrifying, this peril, for if he had to die, James thought, being slain by a dragon to protect the man he loved would make for a hell of an epithaph. But as well as he knew Harry now, as much as he treasured him, James realized abruptly that he had never fully appreciated the man: for the naturalist elbowed him aside and approached the dragon, speaking in a calm, clear voice, and the dragon - seeming to sense the purity of heart before him - lowered its head to the Scotsman with something like reverent awe, a feeling that James could not but share.


	15. Until the End of the World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _James Fitzjames has been transformed and Francis Crozier has been left alone. Or has he?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three-sentence fic written for glorioustidalwavedefendor, who requested a monster AU

He was alone on Terror now - even Neptune had forsaken him to become something Other, a black wraith prowling about the bergs - and so Francis huddled in his cabin, listening to the groans of the ice and the creaking of the timbers and the inhuman screeching of the creatures that had once been his crew; and as he did, he stared at the doorway, waiting for the dim flame of his last candle to flash upon death-pale skin and black, fathomless eyes. Then he would smile, or weep - he knew not which - and reach up to unwind the muffler from around his throat; a flutter of the cold air, a blur of movement faster than his mortal eyes could track, and then James would be there, embracing him, the creature’s still-warm mouth pressed to Francis’s throat. You are cruel to use me like this Francis would think, knowing that James could hear his thoughts, to feed upon me and never make me as you; But you are no monster, Francis, he would sense in reply, and the truth was that Francis was willing to be whatever James needed him to be: now and until the end of the world.


	16. Remembrance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Librarian James Fitzjames and researcher Francis Crozier share a strange sense of recognition_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three-sentence fic written for earnestscribbler who requested a library AU

From his vantage point at the reference desk where he held court every evening, entertaining pages and regular patrons with tales of outlandish requests and strange objects retrieved from returned books - all in quiet tones, of course - James kept a surreptitious eye on the older man who’d been coming in every night for the past three weeks. He always claimed the same spot in the library - the table directly across from Reference, sitting on the side facing the desk - and from time to time James would catch him glancing up from behind his stacks of books about navigation and survival in cold climes to gaze, thoughtful and curious, in James’s direction. It was so odd, the tug of recognition that pulled at James each time he saw the man enter the building, the maelstrom of conflicted feelings - frustration and exasperation, admiration and affection - that his presence seemed to stir somewhere deep in James’s soul; and he determined at last to approach him and have it out, plain and simple: for surely they’d known each other before.


	17. Muscles and Spells

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _James Fitzjames is afraid he knows the reason for Crozier's drinking_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three-sentence fic written for glorioustidalwavedefendor, who requested a golem AU

James sat and watched Francis drink himself into a stupor, and hoped against hope that he was wrong; but there were only a few men on the expedition who understood the Inuit language with enough skill to wield the words so cunningly. The wise woman they’d met in Greenland had said that, in the utmost extremity, such a thing could be roused - _muscles and spells_ \- but that to risk such an act would be dangerous in the extreme; that such a being, once created, could prove more perilous to its creator than any other threat it might be raised to combat. James wondered if the strength of the entrapping ice had tempted Francis to enlist the help of something he couldn’t control; as he watched his fellow captain down glass after glass of whiskey, like a guilty soul attempting to drown itself, he knew the answer.


	18. Hyde Park

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Francis Crozier and Harry Goodsir are the only survivors of the doomed Franklin Expedition_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three-sentence fic written for hungry-hobbits

Every Friday, at a half past eleven, they met in Hyde Park; clasping hands, exchanging pleasantries, then beginning to walk: unhurried, with no fixed destination, a leisurely stroll side by side beneath the verdant boughs of the trees.

They spoke little, except in an abstract, offhand manner, pointing at certain migrating birds or commenting on a passerby, or sometimes talking lightly of their commitments for the week; but of the ships and the ice, the island and the dead, the ghosts that trailed silently behind them, neither man made mention: they had no more need to speak of the weight they both carried than a fish had need to speak of water.

Thus the sole survivors of the Franklin Expedition might be seen walking together in the middle of London of a Friday, if anyone cared enough to look for them; yet no one did, and so Crozier and Goodsir were left to stroll in peace, or what semblance of peace they could cobble together from simple conversation, unspoken words flowing ever underneath their pleasantries, as steadily as the Great Fish River running down to the frozen sea.


	19. All to Myself: James Fitzjames/Francis Crozier

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's an angel at the helm of _HMS Terror_ , and a demon at the helm of _HMS Erebus_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three-sentence fic written for coffeesugarcream who requested _Good Omens_ -style Fitzier!

Sir John gave Francis the advice to pass on to Diggle about the capers and the cow’s head, then moved off to the gunwale to board the ship’s boat back to _Erebus_ ; it was only when the old man was safely out of earshot that James sidled up on Francis’s left, a smirk on his lips, mirth glimmering like distant stars in the fathomless black of his eyes.

“Well Francis - the ice will soon close in around us and we’ll be held fast for another winter: and so you will see how well I keep my promises,” he whispered, “for didn’t I vow, so many years ago, to find some way of getting you all to myself, Angel?”

“You’re too reckless for me, Fitz,” Crozier sighed, shaking his head even as he added: “You might have just asked me to dine with you at the Holborn sometime, you know, and saved everyone an awful lot of trouble;” but to this James only grinned more wickedly, as if to say _what fun would there have been in that?_


	20. A Gentleman's Gentleman: Thomas Jopson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas Jopson, a steward in the early 1930s Royal Navy, makes the acquaintance of a "gentleman's gentleman"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for glorioustidalwavedefendor, who requested Jopson meeting Jeeves

There were clubs in London for every profession, and as it turned out, Navy stewards were no exception. When the foremost club for butlers, valets, and “gentlemen’s gentlemen” opened its membership rolls to captain’s and wardroom stewards, Francis Crozier would not be satisfied until Thomas Jopson agreed to join. Thomas knew that his captain’s intentions were heartfelt and so he capitulated to please him, but he had no desire to socialize with a bunch of stiff-upper-lips from fine London houses, and he dreaded the necessity of making his first appearance at the club’s headquarters near Hyde Park. He could disguise his Marylebone accent well enough - he’d been doing so for years, after all - but Thomas would still have preferred an evening at a dockside pub to one spent sipping sherry in his best suit and tie.

Inside the foyer of the elegant townhouse that served as the club’s home, Thomas was met by an officious porter who bade him wait while he checked to make sure all the necessary membership paperwork was in order. Already feeling excluded and looked down upon, Thomas sat on a sofa near the door, tempted to escape into the more welcoming street beyond.

As he deliberated such an exit, another man entered the foyer. Somewhere between the ages of Commander Fitzjames and Captain Crozier, he was pristine in every particular: clothes perfectly pressed, tie expertly knotted, everything from his shoes to his immaculately combed hair shiny and smooth. The porter immediately dropped Thomas’s paperwork and hurried over to take the man’s coat and hat. The newcomer, who looked to Thomas like a valet but a particularly shrewd member of that species, gave him a polite nod and wished him a good evening.

“A new member, I take it?”

“Yes, sir. Thomas Jopson, Captain’s Steward, Royal Navy.”

“Ah, indeed?” To Thomas’s surprise, the man settled on the sofa beside him. “A captain’s steward. And what is your man like, then? Is he an agreeable charge or does he give you a good deal of worry?”

Thomas smiled. “Actually, he’s very little trouble at all.” He would make no mention, of course, of Crozier’s struggle for sobriety. Since that crisis had passed, the captain had returned to the steady temper and wry good humor he’d possessed when Thomas had first become his steward. “He’s undemanding, and his requirements are simple. And yours?” Thomas ventured to ask. “What is your employer like?”

The man drew a deep breath. “Mine is a young gentleman of no profession. Or rather, his metier is - as he puts it - landing himself in the soup, and he is very good at that indeed. I find myself, on an almost daily basis, called upon to extricate him from one ridiculous situation or another. Come to think of it, a spell in the Navy might be just the thing for him. You wouldn’t happen to know of any openings on your ship, would you?”

Thomas knew the man wasn’t serious, yet he considered telling him about the open caulker’s mate position. Even the man’s pampered young layabout couldn’t be any worse than the last one Terror had employed. “I’m afraid not.”

“Well, that’s probably for the best. I’m not sure he could survive the Navy. Or, more to the point, I’m not sure the Navy could survive him.”

“I’m sorry he causes you such much grief, sir,” Thomas said.

“Oh, I wouldn’t call it grief, exactly. I’m quite fond of him. He just gets himself into the most absurd complications. Romantic entanglements, unwanted engagements, antique cow creamer debacles… Tonight, after leaving here, I must find a way of convincing his aunt that her scullery maid hasn’t engaged herself to my gentleman’s friend on the false pretense that he is a famous Italian magician.” The valet looked up toward the heavens. “Oh woe is me.”

“I suppose if my captain has any shortcomings, it’s in personal relationships,” Thomas began, then clamped his mouth shut in horror. He was not given to discussing Crozier’s personal life with anyone, let alone strangers. The valet considered him with particular interest.

“I am quite good at unpicking knots of the romantic variety,” the valet said. “Perhaps I might offer some advice?”

“Well, I…” Thomas sighed and relented, choosing each word carefully to reveal as little as possible. “He’s had his heart broken several times, you see. The same woman. She rejected his offer of marriage twice. I think he’s gotten over her now, but only because he has transferred his affections to–” Thomas paused, considering how to describe Crozier’s infatuation without disclosing that the object in question was a Naval commander. “I believe he has fallen in love with someone else, but instead of being open to his feelings, he covers them up with anger and resentment, and refuses to give this individual the time of day. What should I do?”

“Do?” The valet echoed. “You must do nothing! Let him fall into the soup, as my employer so eloquently puts it, and when it is over his head, he will turn to you looking for a way to escape it. Only then will you be able to, shall we say, discern the soup’s flavor and devise the best way to get him out of it. And by that point, he will be well inclined to take your advice, whatever it may be.”

“That makes sense,” Thomas said, nodding. “Thank you, sir.”

Just at that moment, the door of the townhouse burst open and a rather strange looking young man rushed in, his eyes oddly magnified by the lenses of his tortoise-rimmed spectacles.

“Jeeves! Bertie told me you’d be here. Dash it all, I know it’s your night off and it’s deuced unfortunate, but there’s nothing for it I’m afraid. I must ask for your help.”

“What is it, Mr Fink-Nottle?”

“Well it’s Bertie - the old egg’s gotten himself into a real pickle this time. He’s been arrested! Some rot about a policeman’s hat, you know—“

The valet looked at Jopson. “We’re at the very bottom of the soup bowl now,” he whispered, and he rose from the sofa, gesturing to the porter for his coat. “And thus I’m needed. By dawn, if I’m successful - and, I pride myself, I usually am - I will have fetched my young master from jail, freed a scullery maid from an unfortunate engagement, and - hopefully - ridded myself of the sight of a lurid paisley waistcoat.“

The valet, Jeeves, tipped his hat amicably to Thomas and disappeared outside, following the strange young man. For a moment, Thomas remained on the sofa, turning their conversation over in his mind. He appreciated the wisdom of the valet’s advice, but perhaps there was a way he could save Crozier from going head-first into the soup of disappointed love: after all, the captain had already been through enough. There was nothing wrong with a little preventative action - a throwaway word, a seemingly bland suggestion - if done discretely. Jumping to his feet, he bid the startled porter good evening and ran out onto the pavement. Commander Fitzjames was staying at his brother’s house in nearby Mayfair during this period of shore leave; it was in this direction that Thomas turned his steps.


	21. All Bets Off

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Little's temporary command of _Terror_ leads to an unusual wager.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the prompt "exasperate" requested by beatriceinmessina

Hodgson was in rare form that evening, perhaps because Crozier was dining on _Erebus_. The stream of his conversation flowed effortlessly: from the most comfortable fabric for waistcoats, to the comparative merits of grouse versus pheasant as both meat and game sport. He regaled his captive audience with detailed descriptions of various musicals he’d seen at the Lyceum, humming bars of several songs and reciting - or trying to recite - the lyrics.

“Hmm mmm mmm, ahh mmm mmm, ta-da-da-da-dooo, summer winds may blow - or is it bow? No, wait - Buttercups may bow their blooming heads, something, something-"

Throughout dinner, the captain of the ship - in Crozier’s absence - had sat with an expression of grim, forced patience, nodding occasionally and, once and awhile, curving his lips into something closer to a rictus of pain than a smile. The rest of the officers were only half listening to Hodgson, but Lieutenant Little’s discomfort had their rapt attention.

“Before you worthy gentleman clear the dishes,” Hodgson was saying as the meal wound to its close, holding up his hand to forestall Jopson from removing his dessert fork, “it occurs to me that this is an excellent opportunity for me to demonstrate a magic trick I saw the Great Karnini perform in Bournemouth a few years ago. I will take the edge of this cloth, you see - just at the corner here - and I will remove it without disturbing a single vessel-"

Little had suffered Hodgson in silence for the whole of the meal, only occasionally attempting - vainly - to steer the conversation in a different direction, one which another officer might mercifully pick up. But now, catching a look of sheer terror from Jopson, Little raised a hand.

“George, I think perhaps endangering the captain’s china might not be the best way to demonstrate your magical abilities.”

“You wound me, Edward!” Hodgson cried, though good-naturedly. “Have you so little faith in my nimble hands?”

Little smiled tightly. “I would not risk the captain’s tableware even if the Great Karnini himself were here.”

Hodgson was on the verge of protesting when Jopson cleared his throat. “Excuse me, Lieutenant Little, but perhaps I might offer a compromise. Lieutenant Hodgson could demonstrate his trick on the table in the great cabin, using some non-breakable items.”

“Capital suggestion, Jopson!” Hodgson beamed, and though Little said nothing aloud, his gaze fell upon the steward with an expression of the most intense gratitude.

Gathered in the great cabin for the evening’s recreation, the officers watched Hodgson crack his knuckles and flex his fingers, preparing to pull a cloth out from beneath the selection of books and empty snuffboxes Jopson had assembled for him. Little sat at the head of the table in the captain’s customary chair, fingertips rubbing his temples, as Hodgson grasped one corner of the cloth.

“Now, gentlemen, prepare to be amazed!” he cried. Little winced.

_CRASH THUD BANG_

As the books and boxes fell to the boards, Little passed an unsteady hand across his eyes. Jopson got clear of the scene by rushing across the cabin to refill Mr. Helpman’s glass of port, overhearing as he did part of the purser’s conversation with Mr. Blanky.

“I’ll place one month’s salary on four bells,” Helpman said, and Blanky made a note in a little book he drew from the pocket of his coat.

“How about you, Jopson? Care for a bit of a flutter?” Blanky asked, giving the steward a wink.

“Concerning what, sir?” Jopson glanced over at the table, where Hodgson was preparing for his second attempt. Little sat with an elbow on the arm of his chair, his hand balled in a fist and pressed to his lips as if to keep from screaming.

“Concerning if - and, more to the point, when - Little finally loses his patience with Lieutenant Hodgson.”

Jopson started involuntarily when the books and snuff boxes tumbled once more to the floor. “One more try!” Hodgson cried out.

“That’s Irving sunk, then,” Dr. McDonald murmured, glancing over Blanky’s shoulder at the book. “He had two bells down and I hear three being struck. Lieutenant Little hasn’t broken yet.”

Jopson allowed himself a secret smile before turning to face Blanky again. “Has anyone bet on Lieutenant Little not breaking?”

There was a quiet collective laugh. “Can’t say anyone has ventured that, Mr. Jopson,” Blanky told him.

“Then I will,” Jopson said. “Put me down for double the highest bet yet placed.”

Dr. McDonald whistled lowly. “Are you sure about that, lad? That would be two months’ wages!”

“Jopson, consider,” Blanky whispered, “it’s only a matter of time before Hodgson drags out the hand organ.”

Jopson nodded, glancing over at Little again. His face was completely cupped in his hands. Hodgson was humming the bars of some song to aid in his third attempt.

“I have faith that Lieutenant Little will retain his calm, sir,” Jopson told Blanky, and with a shrug, Blanky penciled Jopson’s bet into his book.

“Blast!” Hodgson cried as the books and boxes hit the floor again. “I don’t know what I’m doing wrong!”

“Perhaps you’re using the wrong magic word, George,” Blanky called out with a grin.

“Oh, I don’t know. I think I will forgo another attempt.” Jopson saw a wave of relief pass across Little’s face at the close of Hodgson’s declaration, quickly destroyed by his next words. “I’ll fetch the hand organ and entertain you all with a few tunes now instead.”

Little raked both hands through his hair, destroying its usual neatness and giving him a slightly deranged look as Hodgson went to the cabinet where the organ was stored. In the meantime, Blanky leaned forward expectantly, McDonald tensed, and Helpman cringed, no doubt regretting placing a month’s wages on four bells now that the crisis was clearly at hand. Jopson, however, stood serenely and smiled.

“Oh dear no!” Hodgson looked up at the gathered officers, the handle of the organ spinning without resistance beneath his fingers. “I- How did this happen? It’s broken!”

Coolly, Jopson turned back to Blanky and proffered the bottle of port. “Top off your glasses, sirs?”

Blanky closed his notebook and slipped it back into his pocket. “Well played, Jopson. Well played.”

As Hodgson lamented over the hand organ and Irving comforted him with assurances that Mr. Honey would certainly be able to fix it in due time, Little rose from his chair and made a hasty exit from the great cabin. As soon as he could slip away unnoticed, Jopson followed.

He found Little up on deck, leaning against the gunwale at the stern, the full length of the ship separating him from the Marine sentries pacing away the minutes of their cold watch near the bow. Drawing in great drafts of the frigid air, Little wasn’t aware of Jopson’s approach until the steward stood just beside him, holding up his greatcoat.

“I thought the captain might be cold.”

“He is. He was just in such desperate need of fresh air, he couldn’t take the time to fetch it from his bunk.” Little smiled as Jopson slid the coat over his shoulders and began fussing with it, smoothing out wrinkles and adjusting the way each sleeve hung. “Thank you. Though you shouldn’t call me that, Tom, even in jest.”

“It’s not in jest by any means. What else should I call the man placed in charge of the ship? Besides which, I am quite certain you earned your command tonight. You were wonderfully patient back there.”

Little grunted. “You know I like George. He’s a decent man and a capable officer. But sometimes…” He shook his head, letting the rest of the statement hang in the air with the steam of his breath.

Jopson began doing up the coat’s buttons. “You might be interested to know that your patience has won me enough money to buy you a rather nice present once we’re home.”

“How so? Or dare I ask?”

Smirking, Jopson concentrated on the button between his fingers. “I’ll explain everything in due course.”

One of Little’s thick eyebrows arched sharply upwards. “Perhaps you can also explain how the hand organ came to be broken, hmm?”

“Sir? I haven’t the faintest idea. Though, I will say the wood they use on these new-fangled devices is not always of the best quality, and I have observed Neptune bristling at the organ on several occasions…”

“Blaming an innocent dog,” Little murmured, side-eyeing the steward. “I’m heartily ashamed of you, Tom.”

“I’m sorry to give dissatisfaction,” Jopson said, not looking sorry at all.

Little glanced down at the front of his coat. “Mr. Jopson, you are taking an inordinately long time to fasten this garment. I’m quite sure you did up that very button, undid it, and are doing it up a second time right now.”

“You must allow me my small pleasures, sir. I’ve earned the right to them, just as you’ve earned the right to your own command. As well, I dare say, as other rewards you won’t have to wait quite so long to receive.”

Little gave a small gasp as Jopson - under the pretense of reaching to straighten the tail of the greatcoat - gave him a sharp pinch on the backside.

“You forget yourself, Jopson,” Little said, halting Jopson’s quick departure. The lieutenant attempted a stern tone but failed utterly, his lips twitching as he spoke. “I can tolerate much from a fellow lieutenant, but from a steward? That sort of insolence demands punishment.”

Jopson glanced back over his shoulder, beaming. “I’d expect nothing less, sir."


End file.
